Fire And Flowering
by Raksha The Demon
Summary: A collection of ficlets centering on Faramir and Eowyn's love life, before and mostly after marriage. Warning romantic, sensual, and erotic content, in varying degrees. Not yet complete. First Place, MEFA 2006
1. Winter Blooms

As the months of our betrothal passed, it became clear to me that my lady was uncertain in the ways of love.

Long ago I learned the pleasure of kisses. Still, I had never felt much urge to couple. Such trysts offered the joining of bodies rather than a union of hearts. I had only ventured once, in youth and heat and loneliness, to a fair woman's bed.

Yet Éowyn seemed to know even less of bodily love. Her youth had been darkened by the sorrows of war and the lust of a slinking traitor. The man they called Wormtongue had shadowed her steps, stalking her through the very halls of Meduseld. She had survived that cruel siege by locking the natural inclinations of youth away, behind a wall of ice, allowing only her love for what remained of her family to escape.

I did not want our marriage bed to hold cruel surprises for Éowyn. I honored her, and would not take her maidenhead until she was ready and willing to yield to me. But I deemed that she should at least be familiar with the touch of my skin to hers before we wed. For weeks, in Minas Tirith, and in Edoras, after her uncle had been buried and her brother crowned, I walked with her, guards and attendants discretely following. I stroked her beautiful, long-fingered hands with mine, worshipped the proud line of her jaw and cheek with my fingers. Slowly, she grew easy enough to sit close against me by the fire, my arm around her and her head often leaning against my shoulder.

Now, Éowyn had come to celebrate Mettarë in Gondor. The people of Minas Tirith had joyously greeted her with songs; and the King and Queen had held a great feast in her honor: a fitting welcome for the slayer of the Witch-King, and almost enough accolade for the lady who owned my heart. And yestereve, Éowyn and I had set the torch to the traditional bonfire, at Aragorn's request, to the loud applause of the throng assembled in the Citadel.

This day, I took my lady from the City, flanked by my retinue and hers, to the land where she would reign as Princess. We rode to the forested slopes of Emyn Arnen. There, atop the highest hill, our new home was rising around the ruins of my family's ancestral seat. I showed Éowyn the sites where the gardens and outbuildings would soon take form.

I meant to do no more than perhaps hold her hand, or perhaps, greatly daring, blow lightly in her ear after kissing her cheek. She had seemed to enjoy those tender touches; or at least had smiled when I had tried them on other occasions. Éowyn looked so lovely, standing proud as a Queen of Númenor, wrapped in the rich blue cloak with silver brocade that I had given her before we set out this morn. The cool winter breeze fanned her pale gold hair about her face, which was white as pearl except for her ruby-red lips.

We were speaking of the stables, and the many horses they would hold. "Which shall come sooner, my lady" I asked, half in jest; "the first foal of the Ithilien stables, or our firstborn child?"

"Why, that shall surely depend on the stallions, my lord." She said smoothly; "For I know that the mares are willing." Seeing the amusement on my face, Éowyn looked suddenly nervous. I saw her began to wall up her discomfiture, as she was wont to do, behind a shield of cool indifference. Pleased by her words, and the quick and ready wit behind them, I leaned closer to her, meaning only to reassure her…

Then, unbidden, my mouth found hers and fastened on those tempting red lips. Éowyn gasped briefly, startled; and as her lips opened, I slipped my tongue between them. She trembled slightly, but moved forward, lifting her head closer to mine. Absurdly pleased, I cupped her chin in my hand. Her tongue flicked out, unsure, to touch mine. A shiver coursed down my body, and, like lightning, ran also through Éowyn's slender frame. Emboldened, I sucked ever so lightly on her lips, and our tongues met again, caressing most sweetly. At last I broke away, reluctantly, to breathe. I saw then, over Eowyn's shoulder, that her attendants were still occupied on the far side of the hill.

Éowyn looked shocked, her breast rising and falling rapidly with quickened breaths. Her eyes were downcast. Had I frightened her? We had kissed but thrice before, in a gentle press of my lips to hers. Mayhap I should have waited to do more. Maidens are delicate, strange creatures. I kissed her hand chastely, and asked "Is all well?"

As she raised bright grey eyes to me, Éowyn's face turned a most amazing shade of pink, like the dawn sky lit by the first rays of the rising sun. I cannot recall ever seeing a fairer sight in all my life. I wanted to take her in my arms and kiss her senseless. With some difficulty I controlled myself, fearing to alarm her further.

But she favored me with the most glorious smile; my fair Lady, white no longer, but pink and gold as the flowers of spring, and said quietly: "Do it again."

Delight, like love, is wondrous when it comes as a surprise.

**

* * *

**

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:** Emyn Arnen was evidently the ancestral home of the Stewards of Gondor. _"The House of the Stewards was called the House of Hurin, for they were descendants of the Steward of King Minardil (1621-34), Hurin of Emyn Arnen, a man of high Númenorean race."_ (**ROTK, Appendix A,** _Annals of the Kings and Rulers, the Stewards_) Aragorn commanded Faramir to live in the hills of Emyn Arnen in **ROTK**, _The Steward And The King_

_Mettarë_ is the Gondorian version of Yule, a holiday celebrating the winter solstice.


	2. Making The Garden

Seeking sunlight, Éowyn and I forsake the quiet confines of our new house. We hasten, lightly cloaked and hand in hand, through the garden.

Spring has brought forth fair new lilies, roses, violets, stonecrop and simbelmyne. We find a pleasant nook under the apple tree standing between the carven figures of Cirion and Éorl. There, we weave garlands of flowers and place them on each other's brows. But our hands yearn for other occupation, and are soon busy unfastening, unbinding, uncovering…And what glorious bounty blooms to my touch! The wreaths' petals mingle, falling as we tumble in a fragrant cascade.

* * *

"_Yet I will wed with the White Lady of Rohan, if it be her will. And if she will, then let us cross the River and in happier days let us dwell in fair Ithilien and there make a garden. All things will grow with joy there, if the White Lady comes_."

-Faramir, _The Steward And The King_, **The Return of the King-**


	3. The Fire When It Comes

Old fears flicker in our hearth. I watch golden flames lick the wood, thinking of the fire which burned my father and charred his flesh like these logs. He ordered that I should die with him on the pyre. Do the flames, cheated, hunger for me still?

Warm fingers touch my hand. My lady has come to my side, wrapped in bedclothes. She sees my fearful mood. She disrobes me, and sheds her own wrappings, until we stand naked, clothed only in firelight. Her bright tresses are crowned by the flames' glow, and her eyes shine upon me. I take her into my arms, losing my fear in the lemon fragrance of her skin. I part her mouth with mine, kissing her hard, making her moan. Fear diminishes and desire grows. Now she is foremost in my heart and mind. I lick her fair breasts, marveling how they color under my tongue, or is it the heat of the fire? My own heat rises, until I sheathe myself within her. I exult in her joy, in _her_, and we gladly share fire of another kind.

Our son is born nine months later. From fire comes life as well as death.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **The title comes from an anthology of the same name by Parke Godwin, through which I browsed many years ago. I do not recall any erotic stories in the book; or much about the book at all, aside from the title, which I liked.


	4. Astride

Too many months have passed since Éowyn last lay with her husband. Finally, the healers affirmed that she has fully healed from the birth of their son. And tonight, on Faramir's return from a week's tour of the outlying farms, she hopes to welcome him home to her arms as well as her heart.

And yet, as she tells him the news, and Faramir smiles his joy and lifts her up in his arms, Éowyn feels new doubt. Her body, once the slim and straight form of a shieldmaiden, has changed. Her breasts are heavy with milk, her hips carry more flesh. Will he still find her fair? She has been the vessel of their son, carrying him proudly, delivering him painfully, and now nourishing him…constantly. It is hard to recall the touch of her baby's father on the breasts that feed his son. What if she has forgotten the ways of pleasure, and cannot remember what to do, when to do it, their own secret language, now that her body is no longer her own? Then there is the baby, who she had just nursed and placed in his cradle under her maid's watchful eye. _Please, my Elboron, stay sleeping, give us time before you hunger once more,_ she prayed silently.

They have reached the bed. Faramir seems to sense her concerns, and withdraws his hands from the lacings of her robe to bring her head to his. He kisses her gently, then more deeply as she leans into him, letting their tongues touch just barely before breaking away. He asks a question with his eyes. She yearns to shout _Yes_, but does not wish to break the silence. Then her hands unlace the front of his tunic, pulling at his shirt, and he tears her robe from her. They hastily peel off their remaining garments until they lie naked together, and he is stroking her, and she is wanting him.

He parts her legs and claims her mouth again hungrily. She is breathing more rapidly now. Suddenly, milk spurts forth from her taut nipples and Éowyn feels her cheeks burn with misery. Surely he must now think her a fat, graceless cow!

But Faramir laughs softly, surprised but not displeased. He strokes her breasts lightly, then more forcefully, as if discovering them anew. And clearly he likes what he finds! She feels his body tighten. He is ready and they come together as if they had never been parted.

Afterward, she lies quietly in his arms. He traces the perimeter of her breasts with clever, long-fingered hands. "You have truly ripened" he remarks. "A bit more curve, it is lovely. I think we should have another child, so you can keep these most fair, bountiful…"

Éowyn presses a fist against her husband's mouth. "Ripened? Husband, I think I have heard enough from you. Do I look like some soft, over-ripe fruit?"

Faramir playfully bites her fist. She removes it from his mouth, and he kisses her wrist.

"Succulent, not over-ripe" he says with a smirk, barely containing his merriment. She knows he intended no unkindness, but she will not be called "ripened", no matter how he means the word. Éowyn twists and quickly slides atop Faramir's lean, hard-muscled body. She stops his laughter with a kiss. She will show him how soft and ripe she is!

Faramir meets her challenge with fierce kisses, hands kindling sparks within her. He finally pulls her down to meet his rising need. Éowyn seizes hold, and they strive until she masters the rhythm he sets. She takes him in stride, enfolding his power and driving strength. Her fire matches his force; both are inflamed…At last, she gives it all back in a wondrous release.

Newly sated and aglow, Éowyn rests her head on Faramir's chest; while he caresses her hair and back. As she drowses, savoring their shared pleasure, she smiles with a new, slightly wanton thought:_ It really is like riding a horse. Once you've learned, you don't forget how, even if it has been awhile since you mounted. And when you're astride, it all comes back…_

"Good night, _min stéda_" she murmurs. Faramir chuckles softly. They are both well pleased.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**_ min stéda_ means _my stallion _in Rohirric, or at least Old English, courtesy of Branwyn; who could surely aspire to become a scribe of the Mark. 


	5. Bubbles

"It is alright, dear-heart," Faramir reassured the slayer of the Witch-King. Éowyn stood above him, clad only in a shift and a frown, holding her arms tightly folded. "Truly, you will not take a chill; and I am here to bear you company."

Muttering something about outlandish dwarven practices, Éowyn stepped across the wooden planking and then down the short ladder. Her shift billowed out as she stood chest-high in the frothing waters, affording her gladdened husband a view of her slender, well-shaped legs and perfect thighs.

"This hot tub is a splendid invention," Faramir remarked, beckoning his lady. "We once had bathing chambers for healing and recreation in Minas Tirith; I shall speak to the King about restoring them." He sat on a marble bench set into the vast circular tub itself, wearing his braies and a lazy smile.

Éowyn observed that Faramir looked quite appealing with his hair tousled and slightly curled by the water. She relaxed, beginning to enjoy the heat. Who would have ever thought that one could find such comfort in the caves behind Helm's Deep?

"The water is pleasant," Éowyn admitted, sitting down as best she could with her shift swirling about her knees, pushed about by the warm currents. "And this place is most fair." She lifted her eyes to the high ceiling of what the Dwarves called the Blue Chamber, one of the fairest grottoes of all the Glittering Caves, with its tourmaline vaults and white-marbled spires.

Faramir drew her closer to him. He could not help but marvel not only at the bejeweled stone around them, but at the way their colors set off Éowyn's own white and gold beauty, and how the heat of the waters flushed her cheeks. "The cave is fair, my lady fairer," he said softly, and pulled her mouth to his for a long kiss.

Éowyn laughed as she broke away from him. She squirmed most delightfully, rubbed her face against his wet shoulder, and then settled on his lap. Faramir pulled at the strap of her shift, wondering how it would be to take her there, in the warm bubbling water with the steam rising through their hair…and was distracted by a thump as their host appeared on the deck.

"Hail, friends!" Gimli greeted them cheerfully.

_Cursed dwarf_! Faramir swore silently and unkindly. Gimli Gloin-son was clad in overalls, his large feet bare. The water churned as the Lord of the Glittering Caves jumped into the tub, inundating his guests in a great splash. "I see you found our water-works. We would have come sooner, but we had to find the proper beverage."

"We?" Éowyn asked after spurting out a mouthful of water. Faramir covered his disappointment at the missed opportunity with a laugh, hastily restoring the strap of his wife's shift to its proper place on her shoulder. Perhaps Gimli would not stay long. Eowyn was so enticingly wet and warm…

"Here is the wine!" A clear and musical voice called. Legolas appeared in the entrance of the Blue Chamber, carrying a basket. The Elf quickly reached the deck of the tub, set down the basket. He lifted out four goblets and a bottle of Ithilien Red from Faramir's own vineyard. Legolas doffed his grey cloak, then all his clothing except a pair of short and close-fitting braies that left little to the imagination of anyone who viewed the unclothed Elf-lord. Ah well, the customs of the Eldar were less concerned with modesty than were the Edain's traditions, Faramir mused. Dwarf-women and Elven ladies shared such baths with their men-folk, according to Legolas and Gimli. A wise course was to follow local traditions whenever possible. And, Faramir reminded himself smugly, Éowyn sat within the circle of his arms and barely noticed their friend's state of undress.

Legolas slid lightly into the tub, barely displacing the water. He turned, wriggled down to the bottom, and came up again as easy as a dolphin---or rather a tall, two-legged dolphin with long pale gold hair.

The bottle was opened and the sweet, rich wine of Ithilien poured into the goblets. Toasts were made to past and future, friends and family, memories sad and glad.

When they finally left the warm, bubbling waters for the cooler air, and donned their discarded outer clothing and cloaks, Faramir and Éowyn linked arms. The day was still young and the company of Elf and Dwarf was merry, in these caves as enchanted as the lost Halls of Menegroth. There would soon come a time when they could be alone, with no interruption. Faramir thought of the copper tub in their chamber. It would be filled with freshly heated water, and warm robes would await them. Faramir shared a quick look and an unspoken promise with Éowyn as they followed their friends.


	6. Under the Holly Tree

Late on Mettarë Eve, after the bonfire has been lit and songs sung, dances happily pattered on the marble floor of his hall in Emyn Arnen, the Prince himself returns from Minas Tirith.

The night is warm for the season, as is Faramir's heart when he spies his lady in the courtyard. She stands beneath the holly tree; her hair bound only by a wreath of green leaves. The full moon's light bathes her in shadowed silver. He catches his breath, for she is as fair as she was when he first pledged her his love, a pale and slender maiden.

Heart and loins quickening, Faramir strides to Éowyn, and takes her in his arms.

She laughs. "You are home early! The King's message said to expect you tomorrow."

"We finished our deliberations early." Faramir answers, tightening his grip. Éowyn is less slender now, but the slight roundness of breast and hip becomes her. She is too active a woman to add excessive flesh. The body that has borne three children also trains horses, and has a horsewoman's strength. He strokes his lady's golden hair, inhales the clean scent of soap, mint, and Éowyn herself.

"Father!" a clear voice rings out just as Faramir prepares to kiss her. Elboron runs out of the house in bare feet, a robe over his nightshirt. His younger sister Míriel follows, similarly clad. Thankfully, little Cynwen is too young to walk, let alone trot out so late at night.

"What are you doing there?" Their son and heir inquires, frowning. At ten, Elboron views kisses as a loathsome spectacle. He and Míriel exchange wary glances. Míriel tosses her dark head impatiently, while Elboron wrinkles his nose in distaste.

"Observing a special tradition of our house, my son," Faramir's voice sounds pompous in his own ears, but he continues, ignoring Éowyn's subdued snicker. "During Mettarë, when one stands beneath the berries of the holly tree, one may bestow a kiss…properly asked of course."

Looks of horror cross the children's faces. Faramir takes pity on his son and daughter. "In this tradition, only those who are of age may expect, or give kisses."

"Children, you'll catch cold" adds Éowyn. "Hurry back to bed!"

"Elboron, please escort your sister back to her room." Faramir says quietly. "I trust I need not come after you to see that you are truly asleep."

"No, sire."

"Goodnight, Father."

"Very well. I shall see you both in the morning;" Faramir promises. "If you go to sleep now, there shall be presents tomorrow."

His children smile, and run hand in hand back into the house. "I would have gifted them even if they stayed up longer," Faramir admits. "But I wanted this time with you alone."

"You enjoy giving the children presents even more than they enjoy the getting," Éowyn says fondly; moving closer against him. "And when did we begin this custom of kisses under the holly tree? Is that not a Northern habit?"

"Since this night," he replies. "And the Halflings' mistletoe is too far north to use here." He stops her soft laughter with a deep kiss.

A few long and lovely moments later, he releases her mouth. She grins, then touches his thin, eager face. "My lord, I fully approve this new custom."

"I thought you might find it worthy of our court." Faramir answers, mischief lurking in his keen yes. "But bide with me; and let us try the rite once more in practice. I have missed you this last week, my lady."

They press together, lips meeting hungrily while hands wander. He hardens; her breath quickens in want. When at last they break apart, her mantle has fallen, and his hair is disheveled. He retrieves the silver cloak and fastens it around her green-clad shoulders. His fingers trace a trail of milky-smooth skin up her throat to her ear. Of course, another kiss is needed. New customs should be fully tested before they become traditions.

The moon shines on Éowyn's hair and glistens on the red berries that adorn the holly tree's dark green leaves.

Laughing like young lovers, Faramir and Éowyn join hands. Together, they forsake the courtyard for the candlelit comfort of their bedchamber.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Míriel and Cynwen are OFC's. I always believed that Faramir and Eowyn would have at least one daughter as well as the semi-canonical Elboron; and the girls insisted on being named here.


End file.
